


Dirk: Fuck it. Descend. Ride.

by animehead



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Light Bondage, M/M, Size Kink, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 14:46:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animehead/pseuds/animehead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You work well together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirk: Fuck it. Descend. Ride.

He grips the hem of his shirt, fingers trembling and half wrapped in gloves that resemble your own. You watch as he bunches the fabric against his palms and yanks upward with a force so powerful that it rips the seam-- the unappealing cracking sound of fibers being torn apart, amplified by the quietness of the room. 

 

He stands in front of you, shirtless, solid and gray, with abdominal indentions that you’re desperate to drag your tongue across. His eyes are hidden behind a certain pair of tinted glasses that you’ll gladly reconsider destroying if they even think about saying something to disrupt the current series of events. 

 

Besides, you don’t necessarily need to see his eyes to know that they’re wide with both embarrassment and anticipation. 

 

“My apologies,” he says, and his voice is calm and deep and breathy and contrasts with the way he quivers before you. 

 

“Get rid of it,” you say and he crumples the shirt in his hand and throws it across the room. You can imagine the destruction that would have caused had it been made from anything other than one hundred percent cotton. 

 

You can feel him watching you, so you lower your head at an angle where you’re staring directly at the button on his shorts. He inhales, a sharp intake of breath, and he flexes his fingers, hesitating before gripping the waistband in an attempt to unfasten them. 

 

“Don’t,” you say, sternly and with a level of authority that you’re quickly getting used to. 

 

He gasps heavily and his fingers stiffen, frozen to any movement unless specifically directed by you. 

 

_You still marvel at how easily he complies with your demands._

 

You walk over to him and lower yourself to your knees, kneeling before him because you know exactly what effect it’ll have on him. He whimpers above you with longing, envious of your position, wanting nothing more than to be in you place. 

 

You enjoy making him suffer. 

 

_He enjoys it even more than you do._

 

You tilt your head upward and latch onto his shorts with your mouth, unfastening them with a quick jerk of your head. You capture the slider of his zipper between your teeth and pull downward, slowly, still staring up at him while he fights against the urge of turning away. 

 

_He fails._  

 

“Did I tell you to look away?”

 

“N-No,” he stammers and you know he wants to say more, but he covers his mouth with his hand instead. 

 

“Eyes on me,” you say and he nods his head and turns it back in your direction. His hand is still over his mouth, gripping at his cheek and you know he’ll break the skin if he isn’t careful. Hell, even if he _is_ careful, he’ll still break it. “Hands behind your fucking back.”

 

And he moans, snatches his hand away from his face, brings both of them behind his back and his knees buckle. 

 

It’s no surprise to you when you reach up to tug his shorts down and he isn’t wearing underwear. You’ve long since discovered that he hardly ever wears them. 

 

There’s a list of adjectives that you could use to help you describe the positively colossal-- _oh look, there’s one right there_ \--size of his cock, but all of them would fail in expressing just how massive-- _and another one_ \--it is. It’s rock hard and thick and you breathe softly against the tip and watch with amusement as it twitches, seeking that source of warmth again.

 

And then you pull back, push yourself up, and walk away, leaving him to stand alone in the center of the room. 

 

You make your way to the bed and he watches you as you stand in front of it and undress. Your movements are swift and fluid, and when you’re done, you sit at the foot of the bed with your legs spread and your cock painfully hard. 

 

“Come here.”

 

He eagerly takes a step forward, but you hold up your hand, fingers splayed and palm facing him, and he immediately stops. 

 

“Crawl.”

 

His eyebrows raise and you know that means his eyes are wide beneath the glasses. You can imagine them, a glowing pool of barely restrained excitement. 

 

“As you wish,” he says and lowers himself to his knees. “Your majesty.” 

 

You like that. 

 

_You’re the fucking Prince of Heart, after all._

 

He crawls over to you, hand after hand, knee after knee, and his head is pointed down at the floor. You’re tempted to tell him to move quicker, be he’s graceful this way and there’s a level of finesse to his movements and you’re certain that you’re the only one who’s been lucky enough to see that he actually is capable of being as majestic as the horses--hoofbeasts, _whatever_ \--that the two of you love so dearly. 

 

When he reaches you, he settles on his knees and you raise your foot and use it to nudge his shoulder. He grasps your ankle with an unbelievably gentle hold and leans down far enough to drag his tongue up your leg without being ordered to do so. 

 

_You moan despite yourself._

 

There’s a moment of awkward silence that falls over the two of you when you break your role of the brooding, powerful, commanding prince and you snicker and he smiles and the two of you easily pick up where you left off. 

 

He releases your ankle and you crawl on top of the bed and position yourself next to the  custom made manacles made with a metal sturdy enough to keep his strength at bay. 

 

“Get your ass over here,” you say and he springs to his feet, his cock bobbing between his legs as he shuffles onto the bed and over toward you. 

 

He lies down and you grab each of his wrists, securing either of them in the cuffs hanging above his head. You give a pointless tug on the chains just for fuck’s sake and then crawl you way down his body, kissing, nipping, and biting any skin your lips come in contact with. 

 

When your mouth reaches his cock, you don’t hesitate to lick and suck as much of it as you can for as long as you can, your jaws aching from being stretched unnaturally. He moans and whimpers and you hear the heavy clank of chains rattling, created and designed specifically by the two of you. 

 

It doesn’t take him long to cum and you’re not surprised, so you lap up what you can while the rest spills down his cock and rolls onto his stomach. Your elbow brushes against what he calls socks, but looks and feels suspiciously like thigh high stockings. 

 

_He’s still hard after he cums._

 

And you’re not surprised by this either because he’s a troll and his body works differently than yours. You should know. You’ve gone this far with him more times than you have fingers. 

 

And toes.

 

_But you’re ready to go further._

 

His gaze follows your hand when you reach forward and grab a small clear bottle and hold it up for him to see. 

 

“Dirk,” he says, not Your Majesty, but _Dirk_ , and there’s panic is his voice. He’s always been reluctant, terrified of hurting you, and you’ve never pushed the issue because he’s fucking huge and you shared his reluctance. 

 

But you’re curiosity has gotten the better of you and you want, _need_ , to know if you can handle him as well as you think you can. 

 

“Relax,” you say. “I won’t hurt you.” And it’s fucking ironically amusing to you, but he doesn’t seem to see the humor in that statement, so you promise him that you’ll stop if you can’t take it. 

 

He hisses softly when you slather his cock with lube, pumping him slowly while you try to work up the courage to actually tame the beast between his legs. You toss the bottle down next to his thigh, just in case you need it again. 

 

You straddle him, hips raised, ass brushing against his the wet, slickness of the tip and you slowly lower yourself down. 

 

And stop. 

 

Because **_fuck_**. 

 

“Dirk...”

 

“S-Shh,” you stammer out. “We’re doing this, bro. We’re gonna’ make this shit happen.”

 

And you attempt to lower yourself again, his cock stretching and spreading you until you’re panting and whimpering quietly above him. 

 

“Dirk...”

 

“Just...” You say and you’re still panting, your fingers clawing gently at his chest. “Help me out a little bit.”

 

And he hesitates. 

 

“Perhaps we should--”

 

“Fucking do it,” you order and he complies, startled and excited and he slams up into you and you cry out, _loudly_ , pained and pleased and ecstatic that it’s finally fucking _in_. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he breathes out and you look up at him and see the veins in his arms and hands straining against his skin. 

 

“What the fuck for?” You ask, breathing heavily, and trying your best not to just collapse on top of him. 

 

It feels like an eternity, but you’re finally able to move your hips and you rock slowly on top of him, shallow thrusts, your hips winding while you gasp and whimper and he moans below you. 

 

You’d like to ride him hard and fast, but you’re not quite ready for that, so you continue your slow and steady movements, your hand gripping and stroking your cock, pulling you closer and closer to release. 

 

He moves below you, gentle thrusts shoving his cock a little deeper inside of you and you say “fuck it,” place your free hand around his neck, squeeze firmly and slam down against him. 

 

There’s a melody of shouting and clanking chains followed by light and heat and sticky warmth that spurts from you and _inside_ you that makes your legs quiver around him, pressing your thighs against his own, like a rider to a horse and you know that’s no fucking coincidence. 

 

“Fuck,” you breathe out and rest your head against his chest because you honestly cannot move right now. 

 

“Are you... injured?” He asks and you chuckle because what else can you do at this point? 

 

“Other than the fact that I’m pretty sure I’m paralyzed from the waist down, I’d say I’m pretty fucking perfect.” You raise your hips--you guess you’re not paralyzed after all--and allow his cock to slip out of you. 

 

“Well, that’s extremely unfortunate.”

 

You chuckle again and sigh softly, only to frown when you hear an odd creaking sound coming from somewhere in the room. “What that noise?” You ask just before you find yourself falling, eyes wide and not having a clue of what the fuck is happening. 

 

You end up a few feet lower than you were previously with your face buried against the mattress. When you look up, you see him awkwardly positioned with his chest pointing out and his legs nearly curled in behind. Both his wrist are still securely chained to the wall. 

 

“A-Are you okay?” He asks. 

 

“Looks like we broke the bed,” you say.

 

And he tilts his head up at the ceiling, his hair wrapped around his neck and shoulders, and sighs. 

 

“Fiddlesticks.” 


End file.
